


Fallen

by yeaka



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Incest, M/M, PWP, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 17:10:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11406843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Fingolfin goes to pray Maedhros away, but Maedhros is already fighting that.





	Fallen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solarfox123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solarfox123/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for auniverseforgotten’s “Temple (23) [...] with Maedhros/Fingolfin” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/162565904960/prompt-list-3).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There are many temples to the Valar in Valinor, some built by Elven hands and others Maiar, and this one, Ñolofinwë is sure, must be Eldar-made. He can’t imagine his gods worrying over such petty troubles as romance, as coupling and sex, but for Ñolofinwë’s kind, it’s paramount. The temple sits deep within a valley, made of gleaming marble and many colourful jewels set about the columns, and the entrance glimmers in the midday sun. It took all morning to ride here, and there are no other horses waiting near the wide steps, though many run free in the mountains. Ñolofinwë’s grateful for it—he hopes the place is empty. He probably shouldn’t be here at all, but he has few options left, and _something_ must be done.

As he dismounts and ascends the temple steps, he thinks almost exclusively of the same elf that’s tortured him for decades. He’s _tried_ with all he is to change that, to think of someone, something, anything else, but then he’ll close his eyes, and the same pretty face appears in his mind. Today, he’ll pray to banish that. The temple is one of _love_ , and it’s said that one will find the answer to their prayers within its walls. They might pray before the altar to forget, or lie upon the altar to summon all their dreams. Ñolofinwë knows as well as anyone that the Valar have better things to do than listen to such nonsense. He slips through the massive doors all the same.

The hall inside is long and well lit, light streaming in from tall windows and slipping around the many columns, the polished floor tiled to depict a pathway in the center. Ñolofinwë follows it, though it’s only a few steps until he realizes that he’s not alone. 

At the very end of the hall, where the alter sits upon a platform, another is kneeling, head bent in prayer. Ñolofinwë’s steps slow, conspicuously loud across the tile. He thinks of slipping away before he’s seen—this would be _most_ embarrassing—except that the elf glances over his shoulder, and Ñolofinwë knows it’s too late.

He hurries, then, quickens his steps with a gruff determination; if he can’t slink away, he must hold his head high. He strolls through the temple like a king, even when it takes him up to the pedestal, and he stands before the lone guest. His chest tightens for it, his regret doubling—he should never have come. The elf bows once in greeting, then rises gracefully to his feet. 

He stands a smidgen taller than Ñolofinwë, though more lithe, his figure slight but strong, his handsome body well-toned beneath his crimson robes; they conform to it well, and Ñolofinwë has seen this particular man shirtless in the training yards, glistening with sweat. The image that conjures in Ñolofinwë’s head is hardly welcome. Full copper waves cascade down slender shoulders, an array of vivid freckles lighting sun-kissed skin. Nelyafinwë has always been absurdly _gorgeous_.

And a part of Ñolofinwë bitterly resents that, resents more that the Valar would taunt him like this, to find nothing less than the embodiment of temptation itself waiting in the temple. Ñolofinwë is the first to speak, and he admits, “Nelyafinwë. I did not expect to see you here.”

“No?” Nelyafinwë asks, his head tilting lightly to the side, far cuter than his battle prowess should allow him to be. He wears a strange look on his face, neither frowning nor smiling, and asks, “May I ask why, Uncle?”

There are reasons why neither should be here—they’re highborn enough to have other duties, other matters to attend to, and neither should have the luxury of affairs of the heart. But what Ñolofinwë says is, “I would not think you had need of it. You are young, strong and clever, and beautiful beyond compare. Surely you, Curufinwë’s own heir, would need no help to have whoever you might wish.”

Now a smile stretches over Nelyafinwë’ lips, and he murmurs, “Thank you, Uncle. You are very kind to say that, but... I do not think such titles mean anything to the one I wish for.”

A knife seems to wrench in Ñolofinwë’s heart, though of course, he knew that Nelyafinwë had to have his eye on _someone_. It’s the only reason to be here, and it would’ve happened eventually. He’s far past his majority and could marry at any moment. It’s something Ñolofinwë’s never wished to think about, but he knows he must support Nelyafinwë anyway; he wants, above all things, for Nelyafinwë to be happy. He asks, “How else could they possibly see you?”

Here, Nelyafinwë lets out a little sigh. He crosses his arms over his chest, and he glances aside. He takes a moment to articulate, “I am... precious to him, I think.” His eyes come again to Ñolofinwë’s, while Ñolofinwë register the gender of Nelyafinwë’s crush, and a small, traitorous part of him whispers that he has a chance. Nelyafinwë adds, eyes suddenly burning into Ñolofinwë’s, “Just not in the way that I would like.”

For a long moment, the two just look at one another. Nelyafinwë’s always been passionate, and that intensity is now on his face, something wild and fierce that draws Ñolofinwë in, makes it hard to look away. He thinks, though he can’t be sure, that Nelyafinwë is trying to tell him something. Implying things. But he’s sure he must be imagining it. 

He opens his mouth anyway to ask, “How do you wish to be seen?”

Nelyafinwë answers bluntly, “Like a lover.” His tongue seems to caress his lips with the word, and it purrs out to waft still in Ñolofinwë’s ears, twisting a shiver down his spine. He stands just as firm under the heat of Nelyafinwë’s gaze.

He asks, “How does he see you now?”

And Nelyafinwë whispers, “As a nephew.”

Ñolofinwë isn’t sure if he’s paling or blushing. He can feel his mouth falling into a frown, though his heart is racing, lungs beating fast. Nelyafinwë, ever-brave, takes a step closer, murmuring quietly, “I was just praying for you, you know. I had thought my plight helpless. But that you are here... the Valar must have sent you.”

Though Ñolofinwë’s never believed the correlation, he does find it ironic that he came to drive Nelyafinwë from his thoughts, only to find his favourite nephew knelt before the very alter he would pray at, ready to confess. It never would’ve even occurred to him that Nelyafinwë might desire him in return. It only struck him how very _wrong_ it seemed, lusting after his favourite nephew, though Nelyafinwë is fully-grown and old enough to make his own decisions. Curufinwë would have his head for this. The Valar, it seems, would not. 

In Ñolofinwë’s silence, Nelyafinwë lifts his hands to clutch Ñolofinwë’s forearms, and he takes in a long sweep of Ñolofinwë’s body as he mumbles, “You have not run yet; that is good.” His eyes pause just beneath Ñolofinwë’s face, then lift the rest of the way, and he adds, “I have heard that if I lie upon the alter, my love will come to me. ...If I bear myself to you, Uncle, will you claim me?”

Ñolofinwë can hardly breathe. Nelyafinwë seems an apparition in his arms. Nelyafinwë looks at him, both willful and vulnerable, waiting. He has no words. Nelyafinwë leans forward, lashes falling, and with a simple tilt of his head, their lips are brushing together. 

All thought leaves Ñolofinwë’s mind. _Want_ consumes him, as it’s done every time he’s been close to Nelyafinwë in what seems an eternity—since Nelyafinwë first mastered the sword and actually _beat_ him in a training duel. The smell of Nelyafinwë is intoxicating, one he’s thoroughly memorized. He knows the feeling of Nelyafinwë well, having embraced him many times, always guilty and aware of just how long those times would last—and now he knows he wasn’t the only one to linger. He has many nephews, but Nelyafinwë, his first, not so very far from his own age, has always been his favourite. And now he knows the _taste_ of Nelyafinwë, something he can’t explain but savours. His hand rises to cup Nelyafinwë’s cheek before he can stop himself. He slides through the thick waves, soft as silk, and grazes the delicate tips of Nelyafinwë’s ears. He can feel the resulting shiver in Nelyafinwë’s body. He opens wide to suck in Nelyafinwë’s tongue, and Nelyafinwë moans lewdly against him. 

By now, his arm is around Nelyafinwë’s waist, and he’s stepping backwards, unable to help himself. He tries to part them for air, needing to right himself, but Nelyafinwë whines filthily and groans against him, “The one I love is _so_ handsome... I always knew this... he is valiant and true, but wise and fair above all things... I thought he could not be more perfect... yet now I know that he kisses like a dream, and his arms around me feel just as right as I have always known.” 

Ñolofinwë answers him with another kiss, overwhelmed, and another step forward has Nelyafinwë bumping against the edge of the altar. It sits waist-high, the perfect height for this, though Ñolofinwë means to go slow—he truly does. Yet Nelyafinwë’s arms rise around his neck, and then Nelyafinwë jumps, lifting both legs to wrap around him, knees clinging to his sides and thighs so lush against Ñolofinwë’s body. _Rapture_ takes over him, and he pins Nelyafinwë against the altar. He fumbles at the bottom of Nelyafinwë’s robes with one hand, the fabric now stretched tight across his middle. He rolls them up, even though he knows he should stop, but Nelyafinwë is gasping so beautifully into his mouth, and Nelyafinwë grinds shamefully against him. Ñolofinwë knows he has no true chance of going slow—the sons of Curufinwë take what they want, and Ñolofinwë supposes he’s just glad to be on that list at all. 

Ñolofinwë manages to get Nelyafinwë’s robes around his waist, then lets both greedy hands slip beneath while his mouth goes after Nelyafinwë’s. He smoothes along Nelyafinwë’s soft skin, delighting in the warmth of it, how pliant it is, taut with muscle but plush atop the surface, so much fun to knead and squeeze. Nelyafinwë whines giddily at every little touch. Then Ñolofinwë reaches his middle and finds, with another hitch of shocked breath, that Nelyafinwë wears nothing underneath. 

In the pause of Ñolofinwë’s kisses, Nelyafinwë mutters, “I came without, for I had meant to touch myself here, upon the alter, and think of you, so that the Valar might see my passion and grant me mercy. But your body would be far better than my hand, if you will grace me with it.”

“Nelyo,” Ñolofinwë starts, because that’s a large thing Nelyafinwë asks, so quickly. 

But Nelyafinwë just moans, “ _Please_ , I want it so badly. I have dreamed of it every night for years. We may speak later, but now, here while I have you, please, let us make _love_ —” He breaks off in another gasp as Ñolofinwë nips at his neck, laving over his throat, licking and kissing everywhere imaginable. Ñolofinwë knows he’ll give in; there’s no point fighting. He’s never been so hard. 

Nelyafinwë’s legs are already spread for him, entrance already exposed, but Ñolofinwë must fiddle with his own robes to open the front enough to withdraw himself. Nelyafinwë stares rapturously at it the entire time, or at least when Ñolofinwë isn’t covering him in kisses. Then he murmurs in Ñolofinwë’s ear, “I knew you would be big, Uncle.”

“Big enough to hurt you,” Ñolofinwë admits, “And I would never wish to do that...” He wonders if this temple, that’s supposed to be a place of _worship_ but instead only serves sick fantasies, might have a bottle of oil somewhere.

Nelyafinwë simply laughs, “Do not fear that—I am wet for you. In fact, even when I have lain with others, you are the one I think of to make my body stir. You _arouse_ me like no other... though I swear my devotion is not purely physical, no matter how hungry for it I am now...”

Ñolofinwë believes it. They’ve always had a bond. Maybe it’s come from pining after one another, but it doesn’t matter now. Ñolofinwë nods but insists, “You must tell me if you grow sore.”

Nelyafinwë slides his hands down to Ñolofinwë’s face, holding it, and he hisses fiercely, “I am a son of Curufinwë, the grandchild of Finwë himself. If you think you cannot fuck me as roughly as you should like, Uncle, then you are sadly mistaken.”

Ñolofinwë drives another kiss into him, fueled in boundless lust. He pushes forward enough to arch Nelyafinwë back, though he takes hold of Nelyafinwë’s hips and keeps them tight against him. Nelyafinwë is the one to dip a hand between them, taking hold of Ñolofinwë’s cock—something that makes him twitch and groan—how he’s _wanted this_. Nelyafinwë guides Ñolofinwë forward, until the tip of his cock is pressing against Nelyafinwë’s warm lips, and with a little shove, he’s thrust forward, popping right inside. He cries out in instant _pleasure_ , Nelyafinwë’s slick channel clenching abruptly around him, and Nelyafinwë gasps brokenly. Then Ñolofinwë proceeds to grind himself inside, only a little bit at a time, though he longs to fill Nelyafinwë entirely and pound him into the floor. 

In between more kisses, Nelyafinwë starts to beg, little things like, _“More,”_ and _“Please,”_ , and Ñolofinwë tries to oblige. Nelyafinwë’s body is wondrously tight, filled with cloying heat and exquisite pressure, deliciously wet and eager to take him. He goes as deep as he can, until there’s nothing more to give, and Nelyafinwë is quivering around him. Then he withdraws, pauses to drink in the glorious sight that is his darling Nelyo flushed with want, and he thrusts fully inside. 

Nelyafinwë screams at that first push, loud and wild, like the stallion he is, and his fingers dig into Ñolofinwë’s shoulders like trying to pull him still deeper. Ñolofinwë obliges, going as far as he can and grinding, trying to memorize every little detail, then repeats the action, bouncing Nelyafinwë against him. He pushes in and out with a brutal force that Nelyafinwë seems to crave, seems to beg for. Ñolofinwë’s hands begin to roam, taking in all of Nelyafinwë’s perfect figure, and he wishes they were back in his home, spread out in bed, utterly naked, so that he could lick each and every one of Nelyafinwë’s lovely little freckles. 

In the moment, perched on the altar of the loved, all Ñolofinwë can do is drive into Nelyafinwë over and over. He tries to make it last as long as he can, and he does have stamina, years of experience, though he’s never wanted any lover as much as he’s wanted Nelyafinwë. Nelyafinwë’s body is a divine pleasure, Nelyafinwë’s noises music and the taste of him driving Ñolofinwë mad. They go and go, the debauched slapping sounds echoing off the walls and their cries all the louder. Just when Ñolofinwë thinks he’s nearing his end, Nelyafinwë shrieks and buckles around him, clenching down. Nelyafinwë spasms almost violently around him, juices bubbling up. Ñolofinwë clings to him, holds on, and keeps pounding in.

Ñolofinwë’s end isn’t far after. But when he knows it’s coming, he grits his teeth and withdraws, forcing himself to pull away, though he doesn’t make it far, not even outside the veil of Nelyafinwë’s robes—he splatters Nelyafinwë’s thighs and just hopes Nelyafinwë’s entrance is already fluttering closed and won’t catch any. He never meant to be this messy. But of course, he should’ve seen that outcome. He’s a whirl of useless, irrelevant half-thoughts and no solutions as his mind tumbles down the aftermath of an orgasm, and his body heaves for air. 

Nelyafinwë still clutches at him, slumped and satiated but still desperate. Nelyafinwë’s head rests on his shoulder, and Ñolofinwë reaches up to pet through his hair. 

“I wish you had come inside me,” Nelyafinwë murmurs at last, though he must know they can’t take that chance. At least, not without some measure of protection, and Ñolofinwë doesn’t know what herbs Nelyafinwë is currently taking. Then Nelyafinwë turns to nuzzle into his neck, and Ñolofinwë finds his mouth for a chaste kiss. 

For a long moment, the two of them stay like that. They simply bask in the pleasant afterglow, though Ñolofinwë knows that this is hardly a private place, and they should go as soon as they can. He still needs the moment to recover. And Nelyafinwë seems in a dreamlike haze, still learning that this is real. 

Then they share a final kiss, and Ñolofinwë steps back, helping Nelyafinwë off the altar, and they leave the temple with their fingers intertwined.


End file.
